


Breakfast in Bed

by Provocatrixxx



Series: When did the Diamonds Leave your Bones? [2]
Category: Cuffs (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's still mostly smut with no plot. Poor Jake looks so broken at the minute. Also, there's no breakfast in this fic. Just to properly align your expectations.</p><p>
  <i>“You look exhausted.” Simon presses the glass into his hands, moulds his fingers around it steadily, and Jake wonders if his hands are shaking somehow. He shakes his head, tries a smile, but it doesn’t seem to fit his face. The wine is bitter, sharp around the edges, and Jake takes too big of a gulp at first, slight burn to his throat as it slides down.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I just needed some space,” he says, and Simon’s face lifts into a smirk as he looks deliberately around the flat, slow nod of his head mocking the small room, shelves heavy with books making the walls feel even closer.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast in Bed

It’s something of an anti-climax when the door closes behind him, the righteous rage that had soured in the pit of his stomach all day melting away at the sight of Simon’s flat in the evening, the half-empty wine bottle on the counter, the glass on Simon’s desk. It feels less like leaving, too much like running away; the hot-headed teenager aged another five years, fighting old battles in the same old ways.

“Drink?” Simon asks him, and Jake realises he’s frozen in the living room, hand still on his bag, gazing vaguely at the kitchen.

“Please,” Jake hears himself say, shifting his weight a little. He tracks Simon’s progress across the room, bright kitchen light a stark contrast to the warm amber of the living room.

“You look exhausted.” Simon presses the glass into his hands, moulds his fingers around it steadily, and Jake wonders if his hands are shaking somehow. He shakes his head, tries a smile, but it doesn’t seem to fit his face. The wine is bitter, sharp around the edges, and Jake takes too big of a gulp at first, slight burn to his throat as it slides down.

Simon is close enough to touch, right up in Jake’s space in that way that usually leads to something interesting. He’s still this time though, dark eyes watching Jake’s every move, guarded.

“I just needed some space,” he says, and Simon’s face lifts into a smirk as he looks deliberately around the flat, slow nod of his head mocking the small room, shelves heavy with books making the walls feel even closer.

“Space?” Simon leans in then, and Jake feels his pulse slow, the lingering nausea dissipating as Simon encroaches into his space. He rocks forwards on his toes, leaning in to capture Simon’s lips, more a greeting than a kiss, a soft brush of mouths that tastes faintly of spice.

“Just a couple of nights,” Jake murmurs, “need to sort my head out.”

Simon kisses him back, properly this time, firm and warm and devastating enough that Jake can’t help but smile.

“Go and drop your stuff,” Simon tells him when he breaks away, nodding in the direction of the stairs.

***

Jake catches his reflection in the bedroom window, the main light washing him out, until he looks pale and exhausted, lips stained dark with wine. He dumps his bag at the side of Simon’s bed, shrugs his jacket on top of it and tries to put his hair back into place. The reflection in the window looks on, concerned, and Jake forces himself to drop his hands to his sides, to meet his own reflected gaze steady and square.

By the time he gets back downstairs, Simon has cleared the paperwork off his desk and re-filled his glass. The TV is on in the corner, but Jake ignores it in favour of sinking down next to Simon on the sofa, oddly captivated by Simon’s bare feet, the slightly ragged hem on his jeans. He picks up his own glass out of habit, taking a smaller sip this time as he draws his own feet up under himself, half-turned towards Simon.

“It’s my Mum,” he says, apropos of nothing, and the words hang in the air for a moment before they’re swallowed by the walls. “It’s bad this time. The cancer.”

Simon doesn’t speak, but he shifts closer on the sofa, one knee coming up to knock against Jake’s own, warm and solidly comforting.

“Dad’s-” he trails off, because the words are too alien, the concept too dangerous for a Sunday night and a glass of wine. “He wasn’t there.”

The wine helps, warming rather than burning now, and Jake hides his face behind the glass for a moment, watching Simon watching him. Simon’s palm is warm on his kneecap, long fingers spreading out, brushing lightly over the worn denim of Jake’s jeans.

“How bad?” Simon asks gently, and Jake watches his fingers rather than his faces, tracks the pad of Simon’s thumb where it arcs over the curve of his knee.

“She’s through the worst of it.” The words taste bitter, and Jake drinks more wine to cover the taste, shifting his weight so that Simon’s hand slides fractionally up his thigh.

“So you came here to hide?” Simon’s voice isn’t unkind, but there’s a bite to it, the same tone he uses when he’s trying to get under Jo’s skin.

“Aren’t you off duty?” Jake spits, and instantly regrets it.

Simon’s hand stills on Jake’s leg, but he smirks all the same, expression reaching his eyes this time.

“No more questions,” he promises, drawing spirals with his fingertips on Jake’s knee.

***

Simon feeds him wine, warmed by their hands and chased with soft kisses, their feet tangled on the sofa. Jake loses track of time, lets the exhaustion sink deep into his bones, body soft, pliant under Simon’s hands.

“Come to bed,” Simon says, purrs it directly into Jake’s ear, and Jake obeys like a marionette, lets Simon lead him up the stairs and strip him down slowly, steady fingers chased with warm lips. He closes his eyes, lets Simon trail his fingers all over Jake’s body, thumbs smudging over the ridges of his spine, the wings of his hip-bones.

“Tell me you’re on lates tomorrow,” Simon breathes, pushing Jake down onto the bed and working on the buttons of his own shirt.

“I’m on lates tomorrow,” Jake parrots, shifting up the bed so he can watch Simon stripping out of his jeans, shirt hanging loose about his shoulders.

Simon crawls up the bed towards him, blanketing Jake’s body with his own, warmth bleeding from him as he presses close. He knows Jake now, knows how sensitive Jake’s ribs are, how gently to run his lips across Jake’s nipples to have them tighten under his mouth, electricity sparking down Jake’s spine.

Jake lets himself get lost under Simon’s clever hands, closes his eyes and lets Simon play with him, arching into the gentle touches, the stinging little bites because Simon likes to leave his mark. It’s so easy to sprawl out on Simon’s bed, to shut out the word and narrow everything to slick kisses and clever fingers.

Simon is solid and warm between Jake’s thighs, soft laughter as his hands slide under Jake’s knees, drawing them upwards. Heat pools in Jake’s stomach as he complies, hooks his ankles together behind Simon’s back, rubbing off against him to ease the sweet ache of need. He’s too old to be rutting like a teenager, face hot with it, eyes still closed against the world.

“Shh, it’s good,” Simon tells him, changing the angle so that they fit together better, a hand sliding between them, fisting around Jake’s cock and his own. He cradles Jake close, slides his tongue into Jake’s mouth to swallow the desperate sounds that Jake can’t seem to keep trapped in his own throat.

Coming almost hurts, fire licking up his spine until Jake’s back arches with it, breathing into the hot space between them as his bones are set alight. He pistons into Simon’s grip, head falling back into the pillows as he rides it out, chasing the last tendrils of sensation, slick in Simon’s fingers. Simon spills almost as an afterthought, his full weight dropping onto Jake in a way that shouldn’t feel as familiar and comforting as it does.

***

It’s the sunlight that wakes Jake in the morning, unfamiliar where it hits the left side of his face, stirring him from sleep. Simon’s hand rests in the small of his back, fingers spread, possessive.

“Good morning,” Simon purrs, and his voice is scratchy with sleep.

Jake hides his smile in the pillows, clings to the last shadows of sleep in the warmth of Simon’s bed.

“What time is it?” He asks when he can trust himself to speak.

“Seven-thirty,” Simon tells him, fingertips wandering up Jake’s spine. “I was going to bring you breakfast.”

It’s too early to be awake, and Jake is too comfortable to move, arching under Simon’s hands like a cat and snuggling further into the pillows.

“I might sleep some more,” he says, closing his eyes again, “don’t have to be in until two.”

Simon kisses him then, closed mouthed and gentle, his hand leaving Jake’s back to smooth over his hair.

“Tomorrow then,” Simon murmurs, pressing a final kiss to Jake’s temple before he slides out of bed.

It’s not until Jake stirs again, hours later and alone in Simon’s flat, that Simon’s words filter through.

FIN


End file.
